Coming Undone
by oliviabensons
Summary: Every new generation must rewrite history in its own way. Annihilated Redux. Collaboration with 1MissMandi


This is the first of a possible series.

So this is what we like to call a collaboration. **1MissMandi** and I were talking and we were all "Elliot was stupid in season 8. We should rewrite all of his mistakes." And then this was born. Set during Annihilated. Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: Hahaha we so don't own them. The show isn't that perverted.

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As Elliot walks through his former home, he thinks about things. He thinks about his children and how much they've grown. He thinks about where he'd be in his marriage if things had been different. He opens the door to his daughters' room and watches them sleep. His heart constricts with the knowledge that he wasn't there to put them to sleep. Elliot heads into his son's room and checks on Dickie. As he treads through the hall toward his old bedroom, he can hear his wife shifting in their old bed.

"Thanks for letting me come by," he offers as she sits up.

Kathy whispers, "Did it help?"

He responds with something akin to "yes," and he gets ready to turn around and walk out when her words stop him in his tracks.

"Stay."

He worries his forehead. He blinks. He breathes, "I think I'm gonna go." He doesn't miss the embarrassment that plays across her face when he leaves.

[]

Elliot contemplates his next move as he slips inside Olivia's apartment building. He doesn't know what she'll do. He doesn't even know what he hopes she'll do. He reaches her floor and keeps his eyes trained on her door as he walks down the hall.

He knocks on her door and when she opens it, his breath catches in his throat. Her hair cascades down her shoulders and her eyes are tired, but she is still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. "Elliot, what are you doing here?"

"Came to see you," he says, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

She ushers him inside and closes the door behind her as she walks over to the couch and motions for him to sit. Elliot props himself down on the middle cushion and he breathes through his nose as she turns her body in order to turn on the lamp, the sliver of skin between her t-shirt and her sweatpants being exposed.

He opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off, "You need to talk, El?" She soothes him. All he can think is that she soothes him. He wants to respond. He wants to talk about the case. About what's hitting him. But he can't.

He doesn't need to. She already knows.

She lays her hand on his arm and rubs her thumb over his leather jacket that is worn just too much. She lets her hand fall and he places his hand on her thigh. Elliot moves his head closer to hers until their noses are almost touching. Her breath hits his lips and he tilts his head. She closes the distance and her lips touch his. Everything that had him worried for the past few weeks disappear when he slides his tongue into her mouth.

He should think that they don't do this. He should wonder why she allows this so easily. She pulls him through with nothing more than a touch. His conscience engrossed in nothing but her; his strength reinforced by her presence.

He draws from her mouth absolution. The strands of her hair tangle between his fingers, snarled from the pillowcase and waking nightmares. His hand presses into the muscles of her leg, the heat dissipating, fading into her.

She releases his lips first, and whispers, "Stay," against his cheek. No response is necessary; she knows he will.

"Liv," he falters, the request dying on his tongue.

"Take from me," she finishes. And so he does.

His finger traces the skin beneath her navel, and her breath becomes audible. Hands draw up her sides and drag the worn t-shirt with them. The white cotton underneath is not arousing, it is merely an obstacle.

With a strap under one finger, he lifts up and slides it down her arm, baring her soft shoulder. She grabs the other strap and mimics his action, and his eyes draw along the skin never visible to him before. He places open-mouthed kisses along the protruding collarbone, along the column of her neck, along her earlobe. In effect, her head and eyes roll back, surrendering.

He leans into her on the couch, pressing her back against the padded arm. She plucks the leg from underneath her and rests her foot in the crevice where the back meets the seat. He slides into the cradle of her hips, and mingles his breath with hers as he hesitates for effect.

Her heavy eyelids close in a carbon monoxide sleep. Tongues battle, fingers grasp, hips nudge. Her back bows into him, soundlessly consenting.

He strips her bare in a matter of moments.

Her fingers numbly undo the buttons on his black shirt, delicately brushing her hands under the fabric onto his shoulders and sliding it from his body. His chest is warm, flush against her palms.

It is then he fumbles, his ache and need for her overwhelming his fine motor skills. She reaches between them to unfasten his belt and jeans. He stands next to where she lounges, nude, and though his cock is at full attention, all she sees are his eyes.

"Liv," he moans, his hand reaching out for hers.

She places her forearm in his, grasping firmly at his own. He looks down at the union of their arms, and thinks everything is right.

Kneeling between her open legs, his hand cups her cheek and locks eyes. There is a moment to concede, to wave the white flag. Her smile tells him that she has already given in.

His fingers find her center wet and swollen. They slowly trail a path from her opening to her throbbing bundle, his fingers coated with her moisture. Of course she is ready for him; she's been ready for eight years.

Holding his cock in his right hand, his left braces him against the back of the couch. Her hands come to rest at his hips, not holding or pushing, just touching. She wants to watch him slide the tip in but she is too fixated on the look in his eyes.

He penetrates and she sighs and he fills her with himself. She shudders and sinks further into the cushions. His forearms straddle her head, and she turns to plant a kiss on the tattooed flesh. He spies an opportunity to burrow himself inside of her and collapses, attaching his mouth to her neck. He breathes in her scent, and cups the back of her head, drawing her ever near.

All of his frustrations melt away as he draws his sanity back from her. He pulses and sweats and everything in him gives until he's brought to the brink. White light blinds him and flashes of orange and yellow explode behind his tightly shut eyes. He cries out in relief, and her name echoes in the room.

[]

That he came to her tonight brings up an emotion that she had buried long ago. Maybe something had changed on that night months ago when they sat on his stoop. Maybe his begging to come home was just a comfort thing. She doesn't know. She doesn't think that they shouldn't have done this. They're already so fucked up that this couldn't bend and twist their partnership and friend—whatever—ship any more than it already is.

When she moves her lips at his ear so he can hear her labored breathing, anguish, respect, and a glimpse of hope fill him. He imagines this is what drowning is like.

Like two strangers turning into dust.


End file.
